


Bite My Lip and Close My Eyes (Take Me Away To Paradise)

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [40]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, Hurt Spike, Other, Spike Whump, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies, author has no clue what they're doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4745651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were everywhere, the undead—jaws loose, hands poised—and living corpses. Blue, brown, green eyes all turned to white, unseeing yet focused on a warpath. The pupils turned milky grey, like a hazy moon threatening to fall from the sky, and teeth rotted away to yellow and blood-tarnished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, dropped off the map for a couple days. Here's my apology for that. :P Enjoy! 
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint, nor the characters. I do not make a profit from my writing, however it's still my writing so please don't repost anywhere. Thanks! And the title of this fic comes from "Longview" by Green Day--and I don't own that, either.

Something heavy weighed down the air, prickling with anticipation, and stole the breath from Spike’s lungs. No matter how far he ran, how fast, how desperate, there was still the groaning—the deep, animalistic noise that made his hairs stand on end.

Trees were towering above him, ground blissfully and thankfully dry—his legs were still caked with mud, from where he’d abandoned the car and vaulted down an embankment towards, what he hoped was, safety. Spike wanted away from anywhere near the throngs of ravenous eyes and screaming citizens, where the idea of safety was a long-forgotten concept.

They were everywhere, the undead—jaws loose, hands poised—and living corpses. Blue, brown, green eyes all turned to white, unseeing yet focused on a warpath. The pupils turned milky grey, like a hazy moon threatening to fall from the sky, and teeth rotted away to yellow and blood-tarnished.

There was only one thing keeping him going, keeping his legs and arms pumping, and that was the shred of hope buried in his muscles.

Greg, Sam and Ed had been at the SRU already—and Spike had been on his way, stuck in morning traffic after a late start. It was traffic where his only protection was a car, suddenly-too-breakable glass, and unreliable locks; Nothing like the SRU, where he yearned for his trio of partners to be, that was all thick-metal, guns, and easily defensible positions.

Spike just hoped to God that the idiots hadn’t gotten some notion in their minds to come out and look for him.

Passing a lake, covered in scum but the visible fishing dock was very familiar, the bomb tech kept out a wary eye—it was too dangerous to walk, it would take too long, but it was also too dangerous to sprint and beg for well-being.

—but he wasn’t careful enough.

A blur of ashen skin jumped towards him, stumbling out from behind thick foliage, and clamped down on Spike’s upper arm—the zombie’s hands clasped around him, grabbing at clothing and skin with red-crusted nails. The teeth sunk in easy, just above the bomb tech’s elbow, and tore away a large sliver of skin. Artificial, at worst, but still a death sentence.

Pushing the attacker away, Spike took off running—he was dead he was dead he was dead he was dead. Why run? He was dead anyway….

Spike shook the thought off—biting his lip and not bothering to cover up the large red smear across his flesh. He would die long before the blood loss could kill him. The venom, or whatever it was that the undead spread, would melt his mind away and turn him into one of those…. One of those things.

Another brainless killer.

Miles melted under him, adrenaline helping to spur him on, and devastation hit with more shock than the bite had brought on—there were undead padding around, especially now that he was entering the city limits, but they just turned their head towards him, sniffed, and stumbled onward.

There was no hunger for him, nothing trying to rip into him—they could smell the virus corrupting his veins, Spike realized. They could tell his flesh was _polluted_. _Tainted_.

It was easy to walk around the mass of killers, though his instincts were screaming and hammering against his ribs—his brain knew he was dying, knew he was not going to make it, but the fight wasn’t fading.

Fever raged inside him—maybe he’d just die and rot away without reanimation; the other corpses had thrashed and turned within minutes, so why was he still standing with just overheated skin and aches?

…would he turn slowly, feeling every second as his body gave way to the disease in his blood—in his brain? In his bone marrow?

Reaching the SRU was far too easy, another horrifying fact, without the grabby-hands and gaping mouths lined with far-too capable teeth.

Armed with a cardboard sign he’d stopped to make when he passed an office store, the bomb tech walked to the entrance—which was covered with the industrial metal plates, looking like it was in the middle of a siege.

When the metal started to groan, like it was going to open up, Spike thrashed his arms and shook his head in the universal sign of no until the doors slipped firmly back into place.

It wasn’t like there was any hope for him, anyway.

Holding the sign up to the camera, the lens focusing so the brunette knew they could see, Spike tried to convey the rest through his gaze—fastened tight to the camera.

_“I AM BIT._

_I LOVE YOU_

_GREG, ED, SAM.”_

Spike just wished he could see them one last time, but he couldn’t—that would be too dangerous, and his lovers would try and save him when they couldn’t. They’d kill themselves trying to save a dead man, and the bomb tech couldn’t let that happen.

The bomb tech held out his arm, showing the ugly splashes of read by his elbow, so they had proof. Proof that Spike was a dead man, proof that Spike couldn’t be saved.

So the brunette put down the sign gingerly, wincing at agony shooting from his wound, and melted into the sea of corpses staring dead-eyed at the open sky.

 

Spike just wished he could have seen the loves of his life one more time.


	2. Chapter 2

Racked with shaking, sweaty convulsions, Spike groaned and pressed further against the tree. Eyes peered, dead and wild, but somehow a small sliver of comprehension had burrowed into those retinas. Fever hot as magnesium fires burned away his flesh, singed bone, and boiled blood.

Everything was just agony and heat, and it centered around the ragged-looking bite. It resembled more of a fraying quilt than a swath of a human extremity.

Disease-fueled delusions were his only blessing, and even they made up for nothing.

“Greg,” Spike rasped, one arm reaching out towards his partner who wobbled in and out of existence. “It hurts…”

“I know, buddy,” His sergeant whispered, skin bleached white and wearing full gear, “I know it hurts. I’m sorry.”

“’s not your fault,” Spike mumbled, resting his head against the tree with an uncontrolled sob. “H-hurts.”

“Hey, Spike, look at me.”

It was Ed, just as opaque and waveringly there, squatting beside him. Spike managed to roll his head to look, but the rest of him was limp and seizing up.

The bomb tech panicked, air starting to cut off as his lungs started to stall.

“No, Spike, just keep looking at me. Focus on my voice, alright? Don’t think about that, just keep your eyes on me.”

“Hurts,” Spike insisted, fingertips scrabbling across dirt and begging with his eyes for help.

“I know, Spike, I know. Remember that time when Sam fell off the chair trying to fix a light bulb?” Ed joked, and the nearly-translucent Sam snorted with contempt as he slipped into sight and kneeled at Spike’s feet. “And he said I kicked the chair out from under him?”

“You did!” Sam yelped, but Spike’s hearing was starting to get too clotted with white noise so it sounded like a broken off cry.

“H-hurts.” Spike repeated, but Ed’s eyes just hardened.

“I know, buddy, it hurts. Can you breathe?”

The bomb tech tried to suck in a full breath, not the shallow gasp he’d been settling with, and shook his head viciously as black dots danced before his eyes.

“Okay, that’s okay. Don’t worry.”

“H-h-hurts,” Spike whimpered, but the three were gone. Now there were just empty woods, white eyes, and the blood chipping off his elbow. “E-Ed?”

No one answered.

“S.. S.. am?”

It was silent.

“…. Gre..g?”

A survivor, miles away, howled for their life. Then, it was absolute quiet.

“… l… ov… you…” Spike breathed into the chilled air, then Ed was kneeling in front of him again.

“Just close your eyes, alright Spike? Just… just get some rest.” The team leader, now in a regular outfit, smiled reassuringly, so the bomb tech let his head rest back and his eyes slip shut.

“We love you too, Spike.”

Then it was, truly, soundless.


End file.
